Palmistry
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: The Daroga studies Erik's palm, and contemplate the life they have had together.


**A/N: Written because when I asked for prompts on Tumblr, hopsjollyhigh requested something with Pharoga and palm reading. Warning for reference to medicinal drug use.**

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He has never been able to understand the lines in Erik's palm, or his own, has always had to simply take Erik's own word for what is written there.

(Frankly, he is not certain he believes in all of this palm-reading nonsense anyway. None of Erik's pronouncements on the matter have ever been a comfort (at least, the ones that he can remember), have all been harbingers of some terrible doom that though so many years have passed have still not themselves _come_ to pass. Not to mention, the good things never do seem to be written there.)

He sighs, and carefully lifts Erik's hand from off the bed linen. Erik does not stir, face still slack in laudanum-induced unconsciousness. Even to look at him now causes a wave of nauseous guilt to twist in Rahim's gut. Erik's hand is cold in his own, and Rahim raises it to his lips, presses a kiss to the knuckles. There have been too many nightmares, lately, too many nightmares and too much insomnia and as much as he hates using the laudanum he knows that it is necessary. How else could Erik get the rest that he so badly needs when his mind is rebelling against him? It is the only way. The _only_ way.

(He tells himself this, and wishes that it did not have to be so. Erik might even have nightmares in spite of the laudanum, it has happened before, and he woke terrified, and shaking and it was all Rahim could do to calm him. And when Erik _does_ wake, even if there is no nightmare, his mind will be foggy. He will be unable to compose, will be ill and weak. And it will pass, after a time, but what about next time? And the time after that? How many more times can Erik take the laudanum and rest and recover from its effects before it becomes something he depends on everyday? Something that will destroy- No. _No._ He must not think like that, not now. The laudanum is all that is letting Erik rest, all that is keeping him from going mad. He must not let himself worry over these things, must forget.)

Gently he turns Erik's hand over, and studies the palm. There are no scars, here. It is very nearly strange, to think that Erik's hands be unblemished by the life he has lived, but he has always been careful not to let anything happen to them. How could he ever play, with injured fingers or scarred palms? It would destroy him before the laudanum ever had a chance.

He should not let himself think thoughts like that either. Those days are long behind them now (praise be) and they will _never_ come again so long as he is here to help it.

Erik mumbles, something that he cannot understand, and Rahim shushes him, rubs gentle circles on his palm. He settles again, a faint smile twitching his lips for a moment and Rahim feels his own lips form a smile watching him. He must be dreaming something pleasant, and it crosses Rahim's mind to wonder if _he_ might be in that dream. What are the odds of it?

(Surprisingly high, he suspects, and he hopes that if he is there, then that means that Erik's dreams are peaceful.)

His attention wanders, back to the hand resting in his own. It has warmed some while he's held it, and with infinite care he traces the lifeline etched into it. (Erik taught him all the lines, once, while they were both full of opium and their own illusions, but it is only the important few that he remembers now.) It is not very long, as lifelines go. His own is longer, in fact, and if that is trying to tell him something he would prefer not to know about it.

Still, it is a lovely lifeline (a lovely life, in some ways) delicate and neat even though it does cut off short. (He tells himself that's because Erik's hands are insanely big, long-boned and fine.) He bows his head, presses his lips to it, a line of soft kisses along it. Too gentle to disturb Erik now, but enough to soothe the aching in Rahim's heart to be closer to him.

He moves to the head line, and does not kiss it. Rather, he traces it with one fingertip. Most of what Erik told him of it and its meanings have escaped him, but it is a long line, beautiful and elegant with its forked ends. He remembers that that contributes to imagination – supposedly – and somehow with Erik he can believe it. The man has always pretended otherwise, of course, as stubborn as he is brilliant, but if ever there was a man full of beauty – for all of his other flaws – it is Erik. Rahim has seen him with the young de Chagnys; the man can make a story up at the drop of a hat. Of course he has a wonderful head line.

(And each of those memories, Erik inventing stories and making shadow puppets to entertain the little boy and girl, are infinitely precious. For all that he has done there is such gentleness inside of him, truly. Yet if Rahim voiced those thoughts – as he has done, more than once – he would be swiftly informed that he has become a sentimental old man by that self-same Erik, even as his lips twitched to smile.)

It is the heart line, Erik's heart line, that is his very favourite. Sometimes he thinks it must be the deepest of all of the lines Erik has on his palm, curving down from between his fore and middle fingers. There is some meaning in that, surely, something about love and romance, and the purity of them, and, knowing Erik, monologuing at length about all of Rahim's virtues. Rahim's own heart line is not _just_ as impressive.

(He remembers, once upon a time and faraway, Erik studying _his_ heart line, and assuring him that he would be a great, true lover. How very little they knew of each other then, and now…Now.)

Erik loves him, truly, and sometimes it catches him by surprise to remember that, to realise that he, Rahim, who back then never much cared for poetry or music or anything beyond the necessity of his responsibility, can be loved by someone like Erik, who is so very full of those things. He has come to love those things, of course he has, how could he not? And as he spreads his own hand out, palm up beside Erik's, he very nearly could turn poetic over the similarities of their heart lines.

It should have been the giveaway, back then. If they had had more sense it _would_ have been, but he is relieved that they came to their senses while they still had time, and now, sixteen years later, here they are, effectively fathers to a former Opera prima donna, and honorary grandfathers to her children.

The memory drifts before his eyes again, of that night in the drawing room the hall, his cheeks burning and the taste of Erik's mouth still on his lips, nestled on the divan in each other's arms at last, his hand cradled in Erik's own, one spindly finger tracing his heartline. _I never expected that you would feel the same way, Daroga_ , he breathed, raised those hazel eyes to meet Rahim's own, shining with tears. _Rahim_.

The words, the reply that slipped from his lips sealed their lives together, and Rahim would not take them back now for the world. _There are many things that both of us were too blind to see in the other, Erik_.

And now, he curls his fingers around Erik's, and kisses his forehead, and lays his head down on the pillow next to his. And there is truly no more that he could want than to lie beside this man, and hold his hand forever.


End file.
